Run Rose Run Read online

  He gave another snort, but this one was gentler. “Like I need more desperate wannabes coming into my bar.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Though you don’t look desperate, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

  “That’s because I look ambitious.” She leaned forward like she was about to tell him a secret. “And I also look like I did my makeup in a Popeyes bathroom.” She held out a slender arm. “Seriously,” she said. “I really did. On this here wrist is nothing but pure eau de fried chicken.”

  The bartender stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “You’re funny. Country music’s a tough business. Maybe you should consider a career in comedy.”

  She said, “Yeah, that’s on my bucket list, right after climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and becoming a contortionist in Cirque du Soleil. But I need to get this dream accomplished first because it’s in the number one spot. So do you want to keep chatting me up or do you want to hear what I’ve got?”

  “Can you sing?” he asked.

  “Like my name was Melody,” she said.

  Billy didn’t say anything for a moment. He got a bottle of whiskey down from the shelf and poured some into a shot glass. But instead of giving it to a customer, he knocked it back himself.

  She watched him, her heart fluttering in her chest. She couldn’t fake confidence like this much longer, but she couldn’t let this chance slip away, either.

  “Okay, listen,” she said, more serious now. “I was kidding just then. I don’t care about mountains or circuses. I only care about this.”

  Billy dropped his shot glass into a sink of bubbly water. “Do you have any idea how many people come up to me every week, just like you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Probably about a million,” AnnieLee acknowledged. “But I’m one in a million—not one of a million. That’s a big difference there.”

  Billy pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I did just kick out my filler act.”

  “Ray?” AnnieLee gasped.

  “That man can out-Cash Johnny when he’s sober.”

  AnnieLee sat up straighter. “I guess this is my lucky night,” she said.

  “I guess it is,” Billy agreed.

  AnnieLee bit her lip. “Just one thing,” she said. “Do you happen to have a guitar I could borrow?”

  Chapter

  6

  If AnnieLee had been jittery trying to talk her way into singing, it was nothing compared to how she felt as she stood at the back of the bar, waiting for her turn to go up onstage. Nerves made her chest hurt so bad she almost wondered if she was having a heart attack.

  Deep breaths, girl, she told herself. This ain’t the firing squad.

  She touched the edge of a picture of Emmylou Harris that was hanging on the wall and then brushed a speck of cigarette ash off the frame of Ruthanna Ryder’s photo, wishing that somehow the spirits of these great country women would give her strength.

  She scanned the room, trying to breathe long and slow. There were only a few dozen people in the bar, most of whom probably wouldn’t even look up from their beers when she started playing. So why did she feel so damn nervous? Her hands were sweaty, and her cheeks felt as hot as frying pans.

  Maybe she was so jumpy because this was the only first chance she’d ever get. Or maybe it was because she was scared and alone and she needed some kind of proof that this all wasn’t some giant mistake.

  The singer with the ten-gallon hat and the battered Martin came striding off the stage to the sound of half-hearted applause. He passed close by AnnieLee on his way to the bar.

  “Good luck, kid,” he said gruffly, and then it was her turn to walk up those three impossible steps.

  She made it onto the stage without tripping—and without turning tail and running, which she did for one instant consider doing. Her legs were trembling, and her heart had shot so far up into her neck she wasn’t sure she could speak. She sank onto the folding chair. Keeping her head down, she moved the lower microphone so it was positioned right in front of the sound hole of the guitar and then adjusted the vocal mic so it was close to her lips. When she looked up, ready to face her audience, she realized she could barely see anything or anyone with that stage light in her face.

  Well, she thought, that’s probably good, all things considered.

  She cleared her throat. “Good evening,” she managed, and the microphone squealed. Startled, she jumped back before collecting herself and trying again. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m kinda new at this. But I guess I’ll at least sound better than that.”

  A low chuckle floated up from the front row. Encouraged, AnnieLee gave the guitar’s strings a light flick of her fingers. “I want to thank you for sitting here with me tonight,” she said as she twisted the tuning peg on her high E. “Living in Nashville, you’ve probably seen more live music than I’ve seen hot dinners.”

  She began to strum a chord progression she figured they’d recognize—“Crazy”—and she could see Billy behind the bar, nodding his head in approval.

  The safest thing to do was to play a cover—she knew that. Something old and beloved, or else a song the middle-agers in the room would’ve sung in high school. “Strawberry Wine,” maybe, or “Friends in Low Places.”

  But as she got ready to channel Patsy Cline, AnnieLee hesitated. This was her stage right now—this was her chance. Why sing someone else’s words when she could sing her own?

  She stopped on the C7 and let the notes hang in the air. “You know what? I think I’m going to play a song you’ve never heard before,” she said. “A song so new I’ve never sung it for anyone else.” She strummed G, then E minor, then a D. “No one’s going to mistake me for Maybelle Carter on this thing, but I can play the chords all right. And that’s what I hear you need—just three chords and the truth?”

  Someone in the back gave a whoop, but whether it was because of what she’d said or because a billiard ball had just gone spinning into a pocket, she couldn’t tell.

  “Anyway, I guess I should stop talking and start singing, huh?” She smiled nervously as she gave the body of the guitar a jaunty little slap. She knew how to do this. She was ready. She just had to relax.

  The fingers on her left hand found their positions. Tapping her foot on the worn floor, she began to pick out the intro. She fumbled once, stopped, began again. And then, when her fingers felt steady, she started to sing.

  Is it easy?

  No it ain’t

  Her voice wavered and fear tightened her throat. Dear God, don’t let me blow it, she thought.

  Can I fix it?

  No I cain’t

  She sounded so tentative, and nerves gave her voice a thin, quivering vibrato.

  But I sure ain’t gonna take it lyin’ down.

  Somewhere in the room, a beer bottle fell to the floor and smashed.

  Will I make it?

  Maybe so

  Closing her eyes against the hot light, AnnieLee imagined she was far away and long ago from the Cat’s Paw Saloon, when she was a kid who’d sing to her teddy bear with a hairbrush microphone. Back then, she’d imagined a huge, awed crowd hanging on her every note. Now she pictured the opposite: one lone teddy bear, half drunk on Miller Lite, not even bothering to listen.

  The thought made her feel ten times better, and when it came time for the chorus, her voice came out stronger. It growled, then hollered, then implored.

  Gotta woman up and take it like a man

  She could feel the crowd’s new attention. Her fingers flew over the strings, and by verse number two she was belting out the song at the top of her lungs. She sang for joy, and she sang as if her life depended on it.

  Because, she knew, it did.

  Chapter

  7

  You sure weren’t lying when you told me you could sing,” Billy said as he poured a round of shots for a rowdy table in the back.

  AnnieLee took a sip of her club soda and then pressed the cool glass to her burning cheeks. Her heart still hadn’
t stopped pounding, and the sound of the audience cheering and clapping echoed in her ears.

  “I don’t lie,” she said, brushing her damp bangs away from her forehead. Sure, she might break a law or two, or fail to answer certain pointed questions, but she always told the truth unless she absolutely couldn’t. Her stepdad had been a cheat and a liar, and she never wanted to be anything like him.

  “So maybe you’ll let me come back sometime?” she asked Billy.

  He waited a beat, and then he gave a single nod. “I reckon maybe I will,” he said.

  “Well, I’d be honored,” AnnieLee said. She’d played just four of her own songs and then, figuring she shouldn’t wear out her new Nashville welcome, she’d tucked that old bar guitar under her arm and headed offstage. That was when the Cat’s Paw regulars started stomping their feet on the floor, and Billy began waving madly at her from over by the beer taps, shouting, “Stay up there, girl! Go on!”

  For a moment she’d stood there, frozen in the bright light, truly doubting this moment was real. She’d imagined a night like this for so long that suddenly she was afraid she’d conjured it up, straight out of her wild and grandiose imagination. Maybe she was dreaming as she slept on a park bench somewhere. Or maybe she’d flipped that big, dumb semi into a ditch, and the Cat’s Paw Saloon was just a hospital bed hallucination no realer than a young girl’s secret, most heartfelt wish.

  “Is it easy?” someone shouted. “No it ain’t!”

  Those six simple words had broken the spell and brought AnnieLee back to herself. She’d sat down on the rickety stage chair again. And then, with sweat beading on her upper lip and trickling down her neck, she’d had to confess that she couldn’t play any more originals.

  “I’ve been traveling a bit lately,” she said, “and so I’m kinda rusty on my back catalog.” She laughed. “But I could play you an oldie but a goodie—something I didn’t write.”

  She’d just started to strum the chords to the old hymn “I’ll Fly Away” when someone in the back said, “Play your songs again!”

  And so, not knowing what else to do, she had—one right after the other. And everyone seemed to like them even better the second time around. Some people even sang along with the choruses.

  Now, perched comfortably on a barstool, AnnieLee wasn’t sure if she was glad her set was over or if she wanted to run back onstage and do it all over again.

  Billy held out a menu to her, but she waved it away. She couldn’t very well admit that she didn’t have enough money to pay for dinner. She wanted to be remembered for her performance, not her poverty. Besides, she had granola bars and gorp in her backpack, so she wasn’t going to starve.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “Suit yourself,” Billy said amiably.

  “They make a good burger here, you know,” came a new voice. “Of course, it’s cat meat.”

  AnnieLee swiveled around on her stool and saw a man in a denim shirt and faded blue jeans smiling at her. He was dark-haired and coal-eyed and as long-legged as a young Johnny Cash, and her heart gave a little skip in her chest. He had just about the nicest face she’d ever seen.

  “I’m kidding. I hope that’s obvious.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ethan Blake,” he said. “I’m a big fan.”

  She drew in a slow and deliberate breath. She’d die a thousand deaths before she’d let him see that he’d flustered her. “Are you, now?” she asked.

  His smile got wider, and a dimple appeared in each lightly stubbled cheek. “Yes,” he said. “I’m really a fan, and my name is really Ethan.” He gestured to the empty seat next to her. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  She gazed down into her drink; the ice cubes had all but melted. “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “Can I buy you a beer?” he asked. “Or a glass of wine, or a carton of milk?”

  She bit back a smile as she stirred the club soda with her straw. “No, thank you.”

  “You were really something, though,” he said. “You wrote those songs?”

  That made her look over at him again, and this time there was fire in her eyes. “Of course I did. Does that surprise you, Ethan Blake? Do you think I look too young to write them? Too meek? Too female?”

  He held up a hand. “No, no, not at all. Sorry. I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  AnnieLee scooted her stool a few inches away from him. The last thing she needed was a man hitting on her; it didn’t matter one bit how handsome he was. “Well, I don’t generally talk to strangers,” she said.

  “Okay, I get it,” he said, and he sounded good-natured as opposed to defensive. “That’s totally fair. But Nashville’s a small town, and maybe someday we’ll be friends.”

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  He put a twenty down on the bar and called, “See if you can buy her a drink for me, will you, Billy? She did good up there.”

  Then he walked away. AnnieLee watched him go, prepared to look the other direction if he turned back around. But he didn’t. He just picked up that same old bar guitar and started heading toward the stage.

  Her stomach gave a terrible lurch. Keyes, you utter fool, she thought. You were rude to the next act.

  Chapter

  8

  AnnieLee grabbed her coat and ducked out of the bar before Ethan Blake started to play. If he was bad, she didn’t want to hear him. And if he was good—well, she didn’t want to know. No sense kicking herself all night for being snotty to the next Luke Combs. She’d been kicked enough already.

  Outside the air was cool and the street empty and quiet. Lower Broadway, Nashville’s honky-tonk hotbed, was just a few blocks to the southeast. But from where she stood, AnnieLee could hear nothing but the electric hum of a streetlight and the whir of a police siren far in the distance.

  After glancing around to make sure that she was alone on the block, AnnieLee hunched up her shoulders and started walking. The early spring breeze was chilly and her shirt was still damp with sweat. She walked quickly, alertly, occasionally stopping to look behind her, wary as a rabbit in a wide-open field.

  But no one was following her. She slipped along the streets, beneath flowering crab apples whose blossoms seemed to glow in the darkness. She turned one corner, then another, heading for the water.

  Along the Cumberland River, which snaked its way around and through Nashville, lay a narrow strip of a park that AnnieLee had called home for two nights now. She’d slept in better places, that was for sure. But she’d also slept in worse.

  She crossed Gay Street and climbed over a low stone wall, and in another few steps she was standing beneath trees just coming into their leaves. Though it’d been eighty degrees the day she’d left Houston, spring was late this year in Tennessee. She could hear the river sliding along its banks and the sound of traffic on the bridge.

  Ducking down between two giant hydrangeas, AnnieLee pulled her backpack from its hiding place. She took out her tarp and lay it on a smooth patch of ground beneath an elm tree, humming softly, almost tunelessly, to herself. Then she unrolled the lightweight down sleeping bag she’d gotten—along with a knockoff Swiss Army knife, forty dollars in cash, and a lewd proposition—in exchange for Maybelle at Jeb’s Pawn.

  A folded sweater served as her pillow. Light from a neon Coca-Cola sign on the other side of Gay Street flickered through the tangle of branches.

  Sleeping outside reminded AnnieLee of summer nights when she was a kid, when she’d lie in the back of her mom’s pickup truck as it sat parked in the driveway. Mary Grace had been alive and happy then, and sometimes she’d join her daughter under the stars, singing her to sleep with old folk lullabies like “500 Miles” and “Star of the County Down.”

  It had felt like a wonderful adventure to slip into dreams with her mother beside her and the whole sky of stars hanging right there above them. But bedding down outside like this now? It was nothing but a cold and lonely necessity.

  A gust of wind blew last winter’s dead leaves and a torn scrap of note
book paper toward AnnieLee’s face. As she brushed them away, she saw words scribbled in black marker on the paper: …ave never felt like this before, and it… The rest was ripped away.

  She wondered if the note had ever gotten to the person it was meant for, or if it was just wadded up and pitched into the bushes.

  Lines written but never read

  Like a song only played inside your head, she sang softly.

  Then she stopped to readjust her makeshift pillow. If she had a nickel for every scrap of a tune she’d ever written, she’d be curled under six-hundred-thread-count sheets in a fancy hotel instead of stuffed inside a polyester pawnshop sleeping bag underneath a damn elm.

  She closed her eyes and thought back to earlier that evening, when she’d stepped onstage for the first time and sung her scared little heart out. Maybe there was a song in that experience. Certainly there was a story in how she’d got there, and what she was running from. And as she drifted off to sleep, she thought of Ethan Blake and the warmth of his dark eyes.

  Eventually AnnieLee began to dream, and inside that dream, she spoke out loud. The words were nonsense at first, and then came a name. “Rose,” AnnieLee muttered as she curled tighter inside her sleeping bag. “Rose!” Her arms flew up as if to ward off a blow. “Oh, Rose, be careful!”

  Chapter

  9

  Ethan Blake got to Ruthanna’s so early on Tuesday he had to wait twenty minutes in his truck before it was time to let himself into the kitchen. “Morning,” he said as Ruthanna’s cat, Biscuit, twirled itself around his legs. He reached down to pet its soft gray head.

  “It sure is,” Ruthanna said. She was tucked into her favorite spot in the entire enormous house, against the cushions in the bay window, and the sunlight was falling on her red-gold hair. “You want coffee?”